


The Scorpion's Tale

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: The Devil's Carnival
Genre: Gen, Origin Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody comes from somewhere, right? Everybody has a past. A story.</p>
<p>This is the one of how the Devil's Carnival acquired its sinfully charming knife-thrower</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Well I'm a single man, I really don't need a wife!_   
_(Pick up, you gals!)_   
_Yes, I'm a single man, I really don't need a wife!_   
_[Yes, I'm gonna stay this way, 'cause, ooh, what a wonderful life!](http://youtu.be/TkhFoxwJsD4)_

_\- Roy Brown, "Mighty Mighty Man"_

* * *

In hindsight, Archer Greene should have known that sticking it to nearly every willing woman in town would have its consequences. Still, when you’re as pretty as he is—when the women are as attractive as they are plentiful—who can say the risks aren’t worth it? If anything, he provided a selfless service with the simplest of systems.

Get in.

Get off.

Get out.

Repeat as necessary.

None of the women had any silly illusions, not even the married ones (maybe  _especially_  the married ones, with husbands so boring in the sack that silly, little lovesick ideas are sometimes inevitable). Archer always made it very clear up front that there were none to be had. It wasn’t to say that there wasn’t ever any romance. Shit, he can  _do_  romance! It’s just that anyone who ever got the idea that he might settle or stick just to one girl was quickly corrected.

But he should have known. He should have seen it coming.

Hindsight is fucking twenty-twenty, though, ain’t it? And one can never figure out all of the little variables that might lead one to get dragged to a warehouse for a gang beat-down by all the angry boyfriends, brothers, husbands, and fathers of the neighborhood. It’s not as if they had no idea what was going on—they did; most of them did, anyway—but they were more than willing to quietly let it go on because of his rules. Archer isn’t a homewrecker in any true sense of the word. He can have his pick of all the women in town, despite his rough-and-tumble upbringing, and he knows they know it. He just likes to have a good time. He just likes getting a taste of their good life, their good wives, good girlfriends, daughters, and sisters. A little taste and nothing more.

Well, maybe a few dollars more here and there.

But is it  _his_  fault if the women sometimes give him things? Little gifts here and there? He never sets a price. The women just give him things. Tokens of affection. Symbols of their thanks for giving them the best sex they’ve ever had. Items of appreciation for doing things their boyfriend or husband won’t, like spend time on his knees with his head between her thighs (a staple of his repertoire). So they give him things. Sometimes it’s money; sometimes little trinkets, things he can pawn if he needs to because sometimes he does. Eating, keeping a roof overhead, looking as good as he does… None of that is cheap! And what is he going to do? Refuse? Say  _no_? Well, that’s simply rude!

So he takes their money, their gifts. He gives every woman the best few hours of her life, the ones her husband or boyfriend can’t or won’t give her. What’s the harm?

The harm is when one dumb bitch ruins it for everybody.

In this case, one dumb bitch had the poor sense to get knocked up. Not by  _him_ , of course; God knows he isn’t the only boy from the “wrong side of the tracks” sticking it to lonely ladies—just the best at it. He has the good sense to cover his tracks by covering himself. Last thing he needs is a fucking little ankle-biter tying him down. But this dumb bitch had the poor sense to get knocked up, lacked the poorer sense not to see a doctor about it, and lacked the poorest in trying to hide what she was carrying.

Her old man found out. Ranted. Raved. Demanded answers, names.

And this dumb bitch, rather than get her stupid asshole of a deadbeat boyfriend in trouble—she blurts out the wrong name. The name every father, brother, boyfriend, and husband’s been cursing for ages.

Archer Greene.

Maybe she figures nothing bad will happen. Maybe they’ll just talk to him. Rough him up a little. She likely figures that because she’s a dumb bitch with no sense.

The girl, her parents send her away to a special hospice to wait out the rest of the nine months.

Then they go after him.

They catch him drunk outside of a bar—a little shithole of a place called The Scorpion’s Den—and they drag him off to a warehouse down by the docks. That’s when they get to work. It only takes about an hour before they beat the alcohol clear out of his system. The more he denies knocking this girl up, denies even knowing her, the angrier they get. It doesn’t take long to realize this mob gathered around him doesn’t really care about whether he knows  _that_  girl; only that he has likely known  _their_  girls, and that no longer stands with them. They’re tired of being shown up, of no longer being the ones their women think of in the sack. You can hardly blame the poor bastards, really. So much time spent thinking about everything else they deem important…

One of his attackers rolls him over with a sharp kick. Archer feels the blood run down his throat. Somehow, he manages a chuckle despite the pain.

“Not so fuckin’ tough now, are ya, asshole?”

He chuckles again. Turns his head. Spits blood onto the kicker’s shoe.

It gets him another kick in the ribs, but as the pain blooms up his side, Archer decides it is worth it.

“We shouldn’t kill him,” says another. Who is he? A cuckolded lover or concerned relative? “We kill him, there’s gonna be loads of suspicion.”

“What’re you babblin’ about? Chief of police is right over there.”

Ah, yes. The chief’s daughter. Lovely girl. Quite the screamer. Her favorite thing was for him to trace out the letters of the alphabet against her clit with the tip of his tongue. Never did get past O…

“Still. He turns up dead; we’re all screwed. Think about it.”

The silence suggests that they are. Perhaps they are, for once, thinking about their women, about all the scorn and cuckolding they are likely to heap on them if their favorite Casanova ends up dead in a gutter somewhere. Or maybe it just means Archer is blacking out. Evidence for the latter hits him in the face around the same time a new fist does. They’ve put him in a chair; tied him into it by the wrists and ankles because he probably kept falling out. Archer spits blood, glares up at the owner of the fist.

“Still here,” he says, “and I know girls who punch harder than you do.”

Another fist. Stars sparkle before his vision. The ceiling above him spins. The sound of footsteps bounces painfully around in his head.

Right. Time to take stock. Everything hurts. His bottom lip feels split. There is a gash on the inside of his cheek. One of his back molars feels loose. One eye is threatening to swell shut on him. It hurts to breathe. His fingers are numb and he has trouble telling if it has something to do with being tied up or if they might be broken. There stands a good chance that he might have to be carried out.

Archer spits more blood. His attackers stand around in a small circle a few feet away, talking amongst themselves about what to do. He has a few ideas about what they can do. Mainly it involves getting fucked up the ass with something sharp. But first, they can at least do him the service of letting him go. Let him limp or crawl home. Someone will more than happily tend to his wounds. Possibly while dressed like a skimpy nurse…

He blacks out with a little smirk on his face, thinking about a cadre of beautiful nurses cooing over him as they tend to all of his wounds. And then someone dumps a bucket of cold water over his head. Archer twitches and gasps and then everything hurts all over again.

“Wakey-wakey, asshole.”

How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? He tries to blink, only to discover his right eye has completely swollen shut. Well, fuck. He coughs, realizes the mistake of doing so when his entire chest explodes in pain, and  _somehow_  finds the strength to talk.

“What? No coffee?”

The air is forced from his lungs. Archer wheezes, coughs, gags for breath. Somehow, he manages a breathless chuckle.

“Ah, c—c’mon, boys. You can’t be that mad, can ya? I ke—I kept ‘em happy for ya. Kept ‘em busy, kept ‘em from wandering away to find somebody better. Can’t say I didn’t help.”

Unfortunately, no one seems to appreciate the “help” he has given so many of them with their women. Ungrateful pricks. Someone in the group suggests that they shave his head. Nobody is quite sure who, but truth is, doesn’t matter whose idea it is. General consensus says it’s a damn good idea. A fitting humiliation for the little fucker. A way to rub his nose in all the shit he’s caused. Problem is that no one’s got a razor. No one’s got scissors.

What they  _do_  have, however, are knives.

They decide quickly enough that they should use the one Archer had on him, the one they were quick to remove from his possession to make the fight much more to  _their_  advantage. For as much of a lover he is, he  _did_  grow up on the rough-and-tumble side of things. Being handy with a knife is practically a required life skill where he comes from. So far as they have all heard, he is one of the best; his knife, one of the sharpest.

“So we’re in agreement, then?” someone asks. “We’ll cut his hair.”

The men all agree eagerly. Cut his hair! Cut it all off. Leave him embarrassingly bald. Something about the prospect sends a chill up Archer’s spine. Abuses of punches and kicks, he can handle. Knife fights, he has had more than his share. But something about this… They want to cut his hair. Why? And why does it make him so uncomfortable?

 _Man, your priorities are really fucked,_  some small voice whispers in his head.

“Gag him,” someone says. “Someone hold his head in place.”

“W-wait. Wait—” Archer coughs, spits blood. “We can’t work something out?”

Someone spits in his face. They laugh. No, they cannot work something out. They are going to take what they feel is their due.

That’s when the fear sets in  _hard_.

He screams then. He screams and he swears and even when they tie the bandanna around his mouth (the taste of sweat and dried motor oil choking him) he still manages to make noise. Two big, burly hands hold his head so still and so tight, the threat of having his skull crushed need not even be spoken. One of the attackers settles heavily across his lap. See how the knife blade glints in the light! How it sparkles! And tonight, it’s not after his blood—not for now, anyway. No. Just his hair. His precious, beautiful black hair; the hair he got from his mother’s side; hair that he takes the utmost care of, keeps clean and styled.

Hair that the girls like to run their fingers through, to pull on, to tangle in the midst of passion.

He has never quite realized how much he loves his hair—really, how much he loves every part of himself—until now, until this moment right before the fucker straddling his legs brings the knife in close and starts to cut, cut,  _cut_. It goes in tufts, in chunks, in clumps. The makeshift barber tosses each bit to the floor with little care of where it lands. The others laugh and encourage the work to continue. Shave it all off! Leave the son of a bitch bald as a cueball. The more he tries to struggle against it, the firmer those two hands hold his head in place. More hair goes. The knife is sharp enough that the work is simple.

Tug a fistful of hair up from the head,  _hard_  so it’ll hurt, then slash the knife through.

Yank after each pass; repeat until the fistful comes free.

Toss the hair to the floor

Grab another clump of hair.

Start all over again.

Repeat as necessary, with breaks to punch the squirming asshole in the face when needed.

At some point during Archer’s futile struggles, he causes the knife-wielder to slip. At least, that’s what it feels like to him. Maybe the asshole sitting on him meant it. Maybe someone told him to; it doesn’t matter. The idiot slips and slices the knife through skin instead of hair, just slightly behind where his unbroken hairline was only a few minutes ago. He feels the wound open, the sting of air brushing against it. Blood begins to trickle. Something about it makes the gang go quiet. They weren’t planning on this. None of them expected this to happen when they tied grabbed him from the bar.

They have no idea what to do now.

And then someone says, “Scalp the son of a bitch.”

It all becomes a blur after that. Loud hoots and hollers fill Archer’s ears, mixing with and almost drowning out his gagged screams. The feel of the knife sliding back and forth registers as a pain that wavers from searing hot to impossibly cold and back again. Occasionally, there comes a hard  _tug_  that makes him cry out even louder. Tears stream down his remaining unswollen eye, mingling with blood runing down his face. He is dimly aware of shaking. Is this what shock feels like? Archer clenches his hands into fists, unclenches them, only to tighten them again so hard he breaks the skin of his palms. His vision may as well be nonexistent, seeing as it only comes in colors and shapes.

He wants this to be over.

He wants this to be some horrid nightmare from which he will soon wake. Any minute now, some small part of him thinks, he’ll bolt straight up in bed—frightened, in a cold sweat, but otherwise unscathed—and whatever girl he’s with now will wake up to kiss and comfort him back to sleep. Any minute now.

Any minute now.

Any—

_—fucking—_

_—minute—_

_—now—_

“Get his face next. Fuck him up. Put him out of business.”

And just like that, he knows, he knows…!

Of course, he does. What sort of miracle was a boy like him expecting? He’ll be lucky if he gets to keep his rotten life, one no longer fit for freely whoring about. Not without his pretty face, nor his pretty hair…

_No, no, no!_

He’ll be much luckier if they kill him after they have their fun.

_Oh God. Oh God, please let them kill me. Please let them kill me. Just make this stop, please, please! Please let this be over. Please._

_Please._

_Please…_

And then it feels as if a door has opened up beneath him. Archer feels like he’s falling…

…falling…

…floating…

…sinking…

…and then, quite suddenly, he feels as if he is drifting underwater. The pain has been replaced by the sort of coolness that comes with diving into water on hot summer days.

“Oh shit. Shit, stop! Stop! Wait a second—”

Who is saying that? Their voice sounds a million miles away, distorted by the ocean enveloping him. But this is impossible, isn’t it? Somewhat, anyway. Sure, there is an ocean underneath the warehouse—they  _are_  in the docks—but who would put a door underneath him?

_Maybe you’re dead. Maybe they’re just dumping your body._

The thought jolts him. Dead? No, no, no, certainly not. Certainly not dead. Beaten, spit on, and mutilated, maybe…but dead? Dumped? Archer opens his eyes, barely registering that he  _can_  open both, and realizes he really  _is_  in underwater. He starts to kick and thrash; tries to remember how to swim. His lungs suddenly feel as if they might burst. Strange lights dance far above him. Lights from the town? From the docks? He tries to swim but finds that the more he thrashes, the deeper he sinks. The more he fights, the more everything starts to hurt again.

 _Relax_ , whispers an unfamiliar voice in his head.  _Let it go. Let it all go._

Archer doesn’t  _want_  to let it go. He doesn’t  _want_  to die! He wants to be at home in his bed. He wants to be out on the town with his friends. He wants to be  _alive_ , free to do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. He thrashes and kicks. The dancing lights grow smaller and smaller. The pain gets worse. He screams and the taste of blood and seawater rushes down his throat.

 _Relax_ , whispers the voice again.  _Release yourself from the pain, Archer Greene. Let it all go and the hurt will fade. Let yourself give in. Give up what isn’t yours anymore. (No, no, no, no, no, no, no I’m not dead yet. I’m not dead. I’m not. I can’t be dead.) Give in. (No, no, no, no!) Relax…_

He chokes on a sob and seawater. The lights are little more than wobbling pinpricks now. What happens if he lets go? If he lets the feeling overtake him? Archer forces himself to stop struggling, even as his mind screams not to. Again, the pain fades out of his body, replaced by that comforting coolness. He feels himself floating up. The lights start to slowly get bigger.

_That’s it. Give in. Let it go. Just rest._

He feels his eyes flutter closed. The pain is completely gone now. He drifts higher and higher, closer and closer to the open air…

By the time he breaks the surface, he has completely shut off from the world.


	2. Chapter 2

_The world has gone mad today_   
_And good's bad today_   
_And black's white today_   
_And day's night today_   
_When most guys today_   
_That women prize today_   
_Are just silly gigolos..._   
_And though I'm not that great a romancer_   
_I know that I'm bound to answer_   
_When you propose,_   
_["Anything goes!"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=t4iUxRPvgjE#t=26s)_

_\- Cole Porter, "Anything Goes."_

* * *

What wakes Archer from his dreamless sleep is nothing painful. Nothing cruel. It is a sound. Something soft, lilting, and sweet. It takes him a moment to realize what the sound is.

Music.

He sits up, realizing that it isn’t merely music.

It’s song.

Someone is singing.

A  _woman_.

But where?

And…more to the point,  _where the hell is he?_  What is he wearing? He looks down at himself and does an inventory. Leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans, boots… In short, what he was wearing when they—

When they dragged him out to the docks, beat the shit out of him, and—

Quickly, Archer’s hand flies to the top of his head. He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels a full head of hair there. Scrounging around in his pockets produces a mirror, one that lets him see that not only is his hair on his head—someone bothered to style it for him in an impressive pompadour.

“What the fuck?”

His handsome face stares right back at him, contorted in confusion but otherwise with not a single mark or scratch to speak of. He is completely flawless—if only a little bit paler than he remembers.

“Am I dead?” He doesn’t particularly feel dead. Archer looks around, finally noticing the bars surrounding him. “The fuck is this place—?”

Beyond the bars are strangely familiar sights. Brightly-colored signs surrounded by colored flash bulbs. Cartoonish wooden cutouts of animals and clowns. Sawdust—or maybe hay—litters the floor outside and, yes, inside his apparent prison. A cage, his mind clarifies; a cage meant for animals. Circus animals.

“I’m in a circus?” Archer shakes the bars. He prowls the cage in a crouched position, shaking them every few paces. “Hello? He—hello! Help! Somebody out there? I’m stuck in this—”

The graceless fall reunites him momentarily with pain, but at least he is no longer trapped inside. The singing that woke him up is back, though seemingly softer still—enough to make him wonder if he might just be imagining it.

“Hello?”

A round of high, girlish giggling attracts his attention. He starts down one sawdust-strewn aisle, only for the singing to grow louder but in the opposite direction. Archer stops. Looks around. Then he hears footsteps, light and fast, coming from the direction of the giggling. Archer turns just in time to see what he swears is the shadow of a girl’s form retreating. Without thinking, he gives chase, calling after whoever might be spying on him. In the process, the rest of this strange carnival opens up before him. Rides! Games! Tents with signs that advertise freak shows and oddities from all over! As he stands there a moment taking it all in, awed into slack jawed wonder. The smell of smell popcorn and cotton candy make his stomach rumble.

But…where is everyone?

His eyes catch a lump of something moving next to a striped orange-and-yellow tent advertising burlesque contortionists. Upon closer inspection, the lump of something is a sitting man dressed in a bowler hat and clothes that have seen much better days; a man with his face painted up to look like a clown shedding a single tear.

“Hey.” The clown looks up, a little bewildered. “Did you see anyone run past here? Girls or something?”

The man tilts his head. He looks around, shrugs. Then, quite casually, he takes off his bowler hat and holds it up to Archer. With his makeup, the expression crossing his features looks more exaggerated. Archer raises his eyebrows, still quietly marveled that his face—his beautiful, undamaged face!—doesn’t hurt from the gesture.

“What?”

“Penny, sir?” rumbles the hobo clown.

Perhaps out of the instinct born of living in the slums, Archer pats himself down. He digs in the pockets of his jacket, of his jeans…and finds no coin, but rather something else. His knife. The trusty little switchblade that got him through so much—

And also, in its own way, betrayed him.

“I-I got nothin’ of cash, man. Sorry. Just this—” He offers his knife to the clown. “Maybe you can pawn it or something. They got pawn shops around here?”

Again with that tilt of the head. The clown returns the hat to his head before cautiously reaching out to take the knife. Over and over he turns it. He pops the blade open, runs it across the hem of his jacket. He nods a little before pocketing the item. And then he does something else.

He points towards the largest tent in the area.

“Might find what you’re lookin’ for in there.”

With only the briefest of thanks from his lips, Archer runs straight ahead. There is still no sign of anyone else, no one to stop him or tell him where else to go. Chances are the tent will be just as empty. Maybe the clown just wanted to be alone with the bottle Archer saw nearby. Maybe the guy is so drunk out of his mind he didn’t know where he was pointing…

He sort of regrets giving the knife away.

He also regrets not asking where (or  _what_ ) this place is and how he got here. But chances are high that the hobo clown doesn’t know the answers to those questions, either, so there is no way to go but forward.

Or so Archer tells himself.

“Hello?”

The interior of the tent is darkened save for a large red spotlight in the center ring. There are benches lining the walls but no one in them. As he dares to get nearer, doing his best to ignore the increasing suspicion, he notices a coil of rope sitting in the center ring. Who left this behind? Why would they leave it behind?

Maybe it’s part of a trap. Maybe they want him to investigate and, once he gets close enough—

What kind of stupid idea is that? What sort of bait is  _rope_?

Archer sighs heavily, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “This is bullshit, I swear—”

Then he hears it again. The music. The singing. It’s coming from behind him, from outside of the tent, almost as if the singer is reminding him of which way he should actually be going. A little smirk pulls across Archer’s lips. Intrigue fully raised, he starts to leave—

And that’s when they attack.

Girls.

Four of them, all dressed like burlesque dancers and painted up like clowns.

They grab him and drag him back to the center ring with him very much struggling. Two of them wrap him up in the rope on the order of the one dressed in a corset and a cage-like skirt, her mouth painted in the red gash of a smile. His questions and his struggles only get him high-pitched, screaming laughter in return. They toss him to the floor. They pin him down. It takes a few moments before the haze of disorientation lifts enough for Archer to realize they are singing.

No, not singing.

More like  _screeching_.

 

 

> “ _Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,  
> _ _Kissed the girls and made them cry!  
> _ _When the boys came out to play  
> _ _Georgie Porgie ran away!_ ”

Over and over again, shriller and shriller. They tear at his clothes. The more he fights against them, the sharper their fingers feel.

_Like talons or…or claws…_

Archer screams and someone stuffs a striped thigh-high into his mouth. Someone wraps another one around his eyes. They tie him up tight, tight,  _tight_ , and then he feels himself being lifted. Some part of his mind reels at the idea. Lifted by these girls?  _Only_  by these girls? Impossible! They looked too slim! Too small! Too delicate! How could they even…? How is it even possible that they could be—?

“You’re in Hell, now, boy! Just you lie back and we’ll take care of the rest!” cackles one of the girls.

“Shall we have him for tea?” calls another.

“Not dressed like that, we won’t!” calls the leader. “But we’ll find him something suitable!”

Hell? A hundred tiny creatures run down Archer’s spine. Surely that’s a joke. Surely this is just some crazy alcohol-fueled nightmare, right? Or maybe it’s a hallucination driven from one too many blows to the head? Severe blood loss? Out of somewhere, his mind brings up something he once read (during one of the few times he bothered to crack open a book) about dying dreams. Maybe this is one whole giant dying dream!

_But I thought you wanted to live._

Again, there’s that voice! From where?

From underwater, the one that whispered to him in the ocean.

But that wasn’t real! He was never drowning!

Right?

All of the screeching singing falls silent. All movement comes to a sudden, jolting stop. What now? Archer tries to twist his body around and winds up dropped on the ground, left gasping for air. The sound of heavy footsteps walking around him fills his ears next, followed by the feeling of someone drawing near. A pair of calloused fingers frees him from the rope with the help of a knife. The stranger helps him sit up. Archer frees himself of the makeshift blindfold and gag to realize his savior is the hobo clown.

“Th-thanks.” He narrows his eyes when the clown holds out the knife. “What?”

The hobo clown simply gives him a shrug. “You might need it.”

Considering the very recent assault and near misadventure into forced drag, the man might have a point.

“Did you find what you were looking for in the tent?”

Archer starts to shake his head, only to nod. “Only it turns out it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Well, that’s life.” The hobo chuckles. He points to another tent, this one striped purple, pink, and black. “That one might be better.”

This time, Archer doesn’t immediately go running in. “What makes you so sure?”

“Just a friendly suggestion. Choice is all yours.”

And away goes the man in the tattered suit, leaving the confused young man alone and confused outside of the main tent. Well, alone mainly in one respect. There are other people now—women in glittering costumes, men in top hats and suits—and every so often, the hobo approaches one of them with his hat turned upside-down in his gloved hand, asking for pennies. Only a few even pay him the courtesy of giving a good-natured laugh. One or two drop him a few coins from purses and pockets. Archer watches until the hobo turns the corner and then turns his eyes to the tent pointed out to him. It certainly stands out from the others in that it appears to be the only tent with its coloration. A dainty-looking white dining set sits outside of the tent. The table of the set has been set for tea, with a pretty pink teapot and matching empty cups atop white saucers. Teddy bears sit in the chairs. One of them, upon Archer’s closer inspection, is missing its left eye; the other is missing its right arm and left ear. A wooden sign hangs above the flap, bearing a bloomed black rose and elegant script.

**_The Dollhouse of Love_ **

Archer crosses his arms. Something about this doesn’t feel right, especially considering the ordeal he just endured. A better idea would be to find out where he is, who runs this place, and how the hell to get out of here. But where does he start with that?

Rustling inside the tent distracts his attention. He tries to see inside but the doorway of the tents is obstructed by a screen of black lace, allowing him to see only the blur of shapes and shadows. The smell of incense and flowery perfume drifts to Archer’s nose. Tinny violin music reaches his ears. The shape of a person drifts past the screen.

And then he hears it.

The singing.

It’s coming from inside the tent. From the person inside.

Rather, from the  _woman_  inside.

_What’s a little detour?_

The smell of incense and perfume is stronger inside the tent. Candlelight gives everything a soft glow. The phonograph sits on a table in the far left corner, near a desk the same dark brown as the music player and its stand. The desk is loaded with books, stacks of papers, more candles, a few teacups and another pink teapot. Along the left wall is a long reclining couch, its frame as white as the dining set and the cushions a deep burgundy. On the right side is a rack of costumes, a large wooden chest—

“Oh!”

—and a songbird.

Well…a woman, actually, but the way she’s dressed makes Archer think initially of birds. With a better look at her in the candlelight, she looks more like a ballerina than a bird. Fluffy lace and organza the color of sunset make her corseted waist seem even smaller than it probably is. (He tries very hard to ignore that he can tell she is wearing nothing underneath the corset, but Archer has always been a little too attentive to detail.) Maybe it’s also the work of the flames that make her hair and skin look paler than than they are, or maybe it’s the makeup on her face or the tights on her long, slender legs. Her lips are a vibrant red, however, and her eyes a clear blue. She is decidedly beautiful, if a bit strange-looking. It takes Archer a moment to regain his composure and pull out his best little smirk.

“Hi. You, uh—” He clears his throat. “—you the one signing in here, or—? Hey! Wait—!”

She breezes past him and he gives chase, following her past all the tents and the gathering carnies that seem to be coming from all corners now. He briefly stalls when he sees the tall figure of a man in what might possibly be the  _strangest_  getup so far. Horns extending from a red- and white-painted face, hands fashioned to look like claws; he almost looks like—

_The Devil?_

Just a bit, perhaps. But Archer gives it little thought when the smallest of hisses catches his attention. The girl, the songbird ballerina from the strange tent—

“Hey, w-wait up—” Archer follows her, fairly certain she is not so much trying to  _escape_  him as  _lead_  him somewhere. “Where’re we going? What is this place? Hey—”

She turns only partway to raise a slender finger to her vibrantly red lips, and that’s what he sees what the candlelight only hinted to—dark lines running and branching all along the right side of her face from cheek to brow. It takes Archer a minute to realize that the lines are not merely drawn on with makeup or paint.

They are  _cracks_.

_But that’s impossible! Cracks? Cracks in her face? Gotta be makeup, right? Some fancy kind of thing? Like a mask or something?_

Yes, that has to be it. No one normal walks around with cracks in their face. It isn’t physically possible.

 _But what if it is?_  whispers that voice from the ocean.  _What if those cracks are very real? And what if that tall man’s makeup is not makeup at all? What if you really are dead?_

_What if this really is Hell?_

Impossible. Just absolutely impossible. He is probably only seeing things. A trick of the light, maybe, or just exhaustion.

“You sure do give a good chase.” Archer gestures to the booth she stands behind. “This your thing?”

The woman nods, a coquettish smile on her lips. She taps first above, then below the booth, drawing his attention to the text.

**_Kissing Booth_ **

**_5 Tickets_ **

A kissing booth! His favorite place to visit at any carnival. Archer saunters over with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t have any tickets.  _(She frowns.)_  I can’t get one for free?  _(She wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head.)_  Fair enough…”

For someone who might have a lovely voice, this strange woman does not seem to be much of a talker. Maybe the voice came from one of the records for her phonograph instead. Still, something says not to write her off completely. She  _is_  quite beautiful, despite the disconcerting nature of her face, and she has yet to treat him like those other clown girls… Maybe she’s actually got some sanity to her. He ventures to get close enough to put his hands on the booth.

“Do you know where we are?” Archer asks her. She nods. “Can you tell me?”

She looks sad, then—genuinely so!—as she shakes her head. The fingers of her left hand go to her throat, tracing a thin, web-white line that is easily missed if one is not looking for it. Archer feels a strange twinge of recognition in seeing the scar.

“Someone…someone cut your throat? Same person do the, uh…” He gestures uncomfortably. “That hurt your face?”

The woman nods. She puts her hands over one of his and Archer gasps a little. Her hands are cold; like marble, maybe, or like polished tile floors in the winter. He watches her turn his hand over, watches her trace one chilly finger along the line of her palm, and amusement creeps into his voice.

“I thought this was the kissing booth—”

She shushes him by pressing that finger to his lips. How cold, she is! Perhaps because she has no one to keep her warm? He’s good at that. With a cheeky little grin, Archer does what he’s done a million times before when other girls press their fingers to his lips—he presses a kiss back. It startles her, the gesture—her blue eyes quickly flit up to meet his gaze—but Archer plays it smooth. He reaches up and takes her hand in his. Very gently, very tenderly, he lets his fingers brush over the skin.

_It almost doesn’t even feel like skin, does it? She feels like…like ceramic? Like marble or…or plaster…_

“Pretty little doll like you shouldn’t be all alone, y’know? Especially in a place like this.” Archer leans on the booth, lowering his voice as if to share some secret. “Pretty little doll like you, if you were my girl? Wouldn’t ever have to worry about being cold, being alone… Surely wouldn’t let some brute come after you like that. You’d be safe with me.”

The kissing booth girl leans in, too, resting her chin in her free hand. This close, there is no denying that the cracks in her face are very real, but he sees nothing inside of them. No blood, no bone. Only darkness. Somehow, this doesn’t bother him anywhere near as much as he suspects it should. Her beauty and the warming of her hand in his outshine the marring. He wonders if her lips are cold, too, and if they feel the way her hand does. This close, they  _look_  soft and full… Perfect for kissing.

“What do you think, doll? Think you might wanna be my girl?”

The loud crack of a whip startles them both. A large man in a top hat and overcoat appears from around a tent, a whip hanging over his shoulder. The glower he directs towards Archer triggers a feeling of unease deep in his gut. The unease twists into a tight knot when he realizes the man glowering at him has two jagged scars running over where his left eye should be. The tightening of the woman’s grip in his hand only encourages the feeling.

And then the menacing-looking stranger begins to step forward.

“Wh—who is that?” Archer glances back to her, hoping for help, and only gets a bit of a flustered look in response. “Who is that? Why is he looking at me like—like he wants to rip my head off?”

Her mouth moves but no sound comes out. The stranger is coming closer, his focus  _definitely_  on the young man. Archer ponders running, ponders pulling the woman with him just in case this large hulk of a man might have been the one to make her face look the way it does—though, somehow, he immediately knows that not to be true.

Archer feels a tug on his arm in the direction of the kissing booth girl. He is barely looking at her full in the face before her lips crash hard into his, cold as the rest of her but soft—so very soft! The shock of the moment is quick to wear off, along with any sense of impending danger, and he gives in, daring to cradle the undamaged portion of her face in his hand. The way she kisses Archer; it’s almost as if she has known him longer than a handful of minutes, as if she already knows what he likes and desires. She tastes like freshly-spun cotton candy, like the first good batch of the stuff for the carnival season. The briefest brush of her tongue against his shoots a bolt of electricity straight through him. If only the booth were somewhere else, somewhere other than in between them! A chance, that’s all he needs. One chance to get her out of that damn getup, to warm her up and give her some color…

“I could make you sing,” Archer mumbles breathlessly before her mouth catches his again. “Gonna—I can get—”

A small, sharp pain in his lip cuts him off, one that makes him jerk his head back. Instinctively, he runs his tongue over the spot, tasting blood. The kissing booth girl looks at him coyly. A perfect mimic of his smirk is on those pretty red lips.

“You bit me.”

He only realizes just how dumb that sounds out loud a moment before the world violently pitches sideways into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_Just as every cop is a criminal_   
_And all the sinners saints;_   
_As heads is tails, just call me Lucifer_   
_'Cause I'm in need of some restraint_

_So if you meet me, have some courtesy_   
_Have some sympathy, and some taste._   
_Use all your well-learned politics,_   
_[Or I'll lay your soul to waste.](http://youtu.be/6H3QcpvcIrY) _

_\- The Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"_

* * *

 Out of darkness, into darkness.

Archer wakes and takes several embarrassing moments to realize that he has  _not_  gone blind, that he has merely been blindfolded. Again. Whoever has him now has him kneeling on a hard floor with his hands tied securely behind his back. They have taken his jacket and his shoes. It smells of dust and old books in here, wherever here is. Someone else is in the room; Archer can hear them moving around. He thinks of the large, scarred man with the whip and the top hat and is filled with dread. Is it him? What about the kissing booth girl? Was she in on it the whole time?

Thinking of her triggers a flood of abstract images. A glittering ivory tower standing impossibly high into the sky. Beautiful beings dressed in fineries from different periods. The flutter of wings. Dinners, dances, laughter—

He sees  _her_. Whole. Happy. He sees her singing for others, hears her laughter.

And then?

Chaos. Broken glass. Torn curtains. Furniture knocked over. Fighting, blood, fire. Archer sees her again, only she is fearful and her clothes are torn. There is blood on her lips, fresh wounds to her face; she glances between the blood on her hands and her attacker with and expression straddling the line between confusion and anger. Her efforts to get to her feet fail. A large shadow overtakes her. A hand grabs her hard by the hair. The glint of a knife is visible for a fraction of a second before—

Pain flares up his back as the picture fades and, despite his efforts, an agonized moan escapes from Archer’s throat. He falls over sideways and curls up as best he can. The pain ripples and washes over him in waves, intensifying. Archer whimpers. He scrunches his eyes up tight, clenches his hands into fists. Where is this coming from? Memories can’t cause this kind of pain can they? How can he even have memories of something he didn’t experience?

Hands descend upon him and set Archer back onto his knees. One of them runs through his hair and caresses his face. Somewhere above, someone is shushing him gently.

“The more you resist, the worse the pain gets. Relax. Let it go. Let the thoughts settle in your mind.”

That voice. Archer knows that voice. The one that spoke to him underwater and then again here in the carnival after seeing that man with the horns. He hears the voice now, clear as day, and it scares him. If this voice, this  _person_ —this man, really—is real…

His captor chuckles, deep and low, as he resumes stroking the young man’s hair. “You have nothing to fear, Archer Greene. Your sanity is very much intact. This is no dream, no nightmare. You and I and this entire carnival are very much real.”

“Th-then—” Archer hesitates.

“Yes? Go ahead.”

But he doesn’t want to; if all of this is real, then it means he really is dead and that this…this is Hell. Hell! For what? What did he do that was so horrible? Ditch school. Smart off to authority. Fuck around town, figuratively and literally. Maybe he stole a few dollars when he was desperate, got into a few fights here and there. Sure he drank and swore, but who doesn’t these days? Why has he been singled out? Why not the people who beat him, scalped him, cut him to pieces? What about them? Why him instead of them?

Archer drops his head. A small sob escapes him, and with it, the pain he suffered at their hands comes rushing back. Worse still—he can feel the injuries themselves returning, too! His swollen eye, his possibly-broken fingers and ribs; his hair is falling out in tufts and small bundles; there are cuts opening on his face, along his cheeks and lips. And then comes the worst of it, the one that causes him to writhe in his bonds—

“Make it stop—! M-m-make it stop! STOP!” Every sob hurts in a hundred different ways. “Oh God—o-o-oh, God, please,  _please—!_ ”

“You’re in the wrong place if you’re looking for God—and even if you found him, I’m afraid he wouldn’t help you.”

“Then—th-then—a-angh—who are you?” All this pain and still, he finds the strength to speak! How? Where? Is this his captor’s doing? Does he get some sort of sick fascination out of it? “Wh-who are—who’re you, then? The Devil?”

“I have many names.” The blindfold comes away. Light from a lamp comes rushing into Archer’s good eye, enough that he can see that he is in a dressing room of sorts and that the figure sitting down across from him is the red, horned man. “That one seems to be popular nowadays. I prefer my given name. You know which one it is.”

Archer struggles to get it out. “L—L-Lu—Lucifer.”

The horned man smiles. “That’s the one. I already know who you are, Archer Greene, and I know that you’ve managed to lead an impressively colorful life in your twenty-three years of life. Asmodeus would be proud.  _(He chuckles.)_  Pardon me.”

“S-so you’re gonna—nngh—y-you’re gonna punish me for eternity.”

“I could, yes.” Lucifer leans back in his throne of a chair, linking his hands together. “I could torture you a thousand different ways. Fire, instruments, whips, weights, poorly-sung renditions of songs from musicals…but torture grows so  _boring_. It gets old after a while, Archer, so I decided a couple of decades ago that we would do things a little bit differently around here. We were going to have  _fun_.

“Of course, we still have a job to do. This is still a carnival of sinners, after all, and we cannot admit just  _anyone_. I will only have the best here. Fortunately for you, for reasons I can’t  _begin_  to imagine—” He frowns, rolls his eyes. “—my little darling has taken quite a shine to you.”

His little darling? The kissing booth girl?

“That…that was your—nngh!—your daughter?”

The shift of expression would be funny if Archer wasn’t in so much fucking agony. At first, Lucifer looks bewildered. Then the expression shifts briefly into disgust, then into amusement. He laughs and it sounds like the rumble of thunder.

“The Painted Doll, my daughter?  _No!_  Please, no! Do I honestly look like I could produce something that lovely from my loins?” Lucifer asks.

No. No, he does not.

“But we  _are_  family, of a kind, and I am inclined to spoiling her when she wants something. She’s had it so hard for such a long time…but you know all about that, don’t you?” When Archer risks the agony to look confused, Lucifer taps at his own temple with one long nail. “She showed you, didn’t she? She doesn’t show just anyone. You should consider yourself special, especially since she wants to keep you.”

“Like a…pet?” Archer asks.

“I don’t understand it at all.” He shakes his head. “What do you possibly have to offer me? You’re not exactly a looker lately. Have you seen yourself?  _(He gestures to a mirror.)_  Shall I show you—?”

“No. P-please don’t—I-I—” Archer squirms. “I-I don’t want—p-please—”

“You don’t want to see what they’ve done to you.”

Archer bows his head. “N-no. Not if—n-not if I have t—to look this way for eternity. I’d ra—ather be blind than see—”

“And you would rather be dead than continue living like a mutilated corpse.” Archer nods, keeping his head bowed no matter how much it hurts. Lucifer claps his hands once. “Mortals and their vanity. It’s precious. Never gets old.”

With a chuckle, he rises. The steps he takes as he begins to pace sound heavy and full of purpose.

“I suppose…that I could help you. You must bear the marks of your sin—for we are, after all, in the business of punishing wayward sinners like yourself—but you can spend your eternal years with the looks and skills that made you such a favorite back home. But nothing here is gotten for free, my boy, so you must tell me now…” Lucifer leans down and tilts Archer’s face up to his, eliciting whimpers. “How could you possibly be of any use to me?”

The answer comes automatically, without thinking. “I can defend her.”

“Defend her?” He tightens his grip. “And what makes you thinks she needs defending? Hm?”

“Not from people. From… I could keep her warm. Keep her company. She’s so cold…so lonely…” The words feel as though they are coming from somewhere else, somewhere outside of himself. He is just the mouthpiece. “Do you ever…get lonely?”

Archer feels a hundred miles away, like maybe the only reason he is still upright has to do with Lucifer’s hold on his chin. Sure enough, when the horned man releases him with a sneer, he falls over again with a painful thud.

The last thing he hears before succumbing to unconsciousness is the Devil asking, “Let’s find out how you are knives.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Come down and join the circus!_  
 _It's easy to do._  
 _You can marry the strongman,_  
 _[But I think the knife-thrower's got his eye on you...](http://youtu.be/8ljc0oNKxVQ) _

_\- Vermillion Lies, "Circus Apocalypse"_

* * *

This time, the gentle sound of her voice is what brings Archer out of the dark. She isn’t singing to him, just humming a tune he feels like he should recognize. Archer lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sound and the gentle caress of her fingertips across his forehead. He wonders what her voice sounds like now in the wake of whatever happened to her. Can she still actually talk? What about sing? Is the humming the only thing she has left? But he heard her, didn’t he? He heard her sing…

Then again, she also has that phonograph and those records.

Archer draws in a breath. The kissing booth girl stops humming. Her fingers alight on his wrist. Gently, she squeezes; somehow, without needing to be told, he knows it to be a command:  _Open your eyes._

So he does. He gazes up into those pretty eyes looking down at him and he smiles.

“Hey there, Doll. You miss me?” His smile widens when she nods a little. She caresses his face and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

Carefully, she helps him sit up. That’s when it becomes apparent that he is in her tent on her reclining couch. Nothing hurts. He is unblemished. Unscarred. Whole.

Sort of.

“My hair—” Archer swallows. Panic rises as he feels his head, feels where skin ends and bone begins. “My h-head—”

She shushes him into silence, pressing a finger to his lips the same way she did at the kissing booth. (She. Her. What is it that L…that the horned man called her? The Painted Doll. He can understand why.) She stays that way, staring at him with a commanding sort of look, until Archer until he drops his hands into his lap. It takes him a few moments to figure out that the Doll wants him to close his eyes. He listens to her moving around her tent; opening and closing things, moving items, sliding clothes side to side on the rack. Outside, the carnival is a buzz. There are people calling to each other. A rickety cart rolls by, its wheels in desperate need of oil. Archer hears a girl with a high voice—the same girl who spoke in his ear when he was bound up in rope—poke her head in and ask the Doll about him. It amuses him a little when it sounds like the Doll sends her off running.

“When can I open my eyes?” he asks, knowing without needing to be reminded that expecting an answer (a verbal one, at least) is futile. “What’re you doing over there, huh? Getting pretty for me?  _(The sounds of movement stop.)_  You don’t have to, y’know. C’mere…”

Her footsteps are so light against the ground that it startles Archer when he feels the Doll place something snug around his head. Attempts to feel it out earn him light slaps to his hands. Attempts to reach for her, to slide his hands around her little waist while she makes readjustments; those are a little bit more well-received.

“So much to learn about you. How we gonna do that if you don’t talk to me, huh?” Archer’s thumbs brush against her waist idly. “Through touch? Through song, maybe?”

The Painted Doll responds by taking his hands in hers. Still so very, very cold! He’ll fix that. Soon enough, he will. He ventures to open his eyes and look up at her.

“I’m willing to learn,” he says, “if you’re willing to teach.”

Something about this pleases her. It isn’t immediately evident on her face, but something… Archer can feel it in his chest. The notion of her pleasure at his willingness to put himself under her tutelage, under her care. Like a pet. She rewards him with a kiss and he is pleased to find that her lips, at least, are still warm enough from their last encounter—only this time, she tastes of fresh strawberries.

A tug of his arms from her instructs Archer to rise. She guides him towards a standing mirror that he is unsure was here on his first visit. His stomach contorts. A desire to argue her dies in his throat. How can he complain? Where’s his right? Still, he would be more than happy if he never saw another mirror in his life—until Archer sees what the Doll has done for him. A wig of sorts, styled into a perfect pompadour, rests snugly on his head and covers any evidence of his scalping. Archer’s heart sinks a little when it feels hard to the touch, like molded plastic, instead of actual hair. Compared to the alternative of going without, however… Next to him, the Doll beams, clearly proud of herself.

“This was your idea?” Archer asks.

Still beaming, the Doll nods. She wanders away to the rack and gives him a new set of clothes and boots very much like his old ones. The black leather of the boots is unmarked, however, and the black motorcycle jacket is a different style from the one he used to wear.

“You want me to change?” She nods, turning around and shielding her eyes to give Archer privacy. “You don’t want to help me?”

Though she does not turn, the Doll stamps her foot, and Archer gets the feeling he has given her cheeks the first bit of color not borne from makeup in a long time.

The clothes and shoes feel perfect, as if everything was made specifically for him. The Doll also looks quite pleased. From her desk, she retrieves a small but wide silver box. Inside, he finds a familiar item—his knife. The knife that saved him countless times. The knife that betrayed him. The handle has been decorated with a painted gold scorpion, but he would recognize the knife anywhere. Archer hesitates.

_“You must bear the marks of your sin.”_

Isn’t that what the horned man said? But accepting this… Taking it means he accepts his fate. That he fully accepts that this is real, that he is dead, and that he is among the damned here.

_It may not be so bad, though. Things could be worse, couldn’t it?_

They could. They most certainly could.

Archer takes the knife. It feels like it always has—familiar, right,  _his_. He shows her the gold scorpion.

“What’s this?”

As if on cue, an old man in a long coat enters the tent, bald save for a mane of gray hair ringed around his head. In his gnarled hands is a portfolio. Pocket watches of various colors hang from fob chains on his coat. As he lifts the monocular covering his left eye, he smiles at the Doll fondly, like an old father or grandfather addressing his favorite family member.

“Is he ready for presentation, dear?” When she nods, he studies the young man up and down before nodding in approval. “Very well. I am the Ticket-Keeper of this Carnival, though you may address me as Peter if you so wish.”

“Peter.”

“Yes.” They shake hands. For an old man, he has quite the grip. “A most unfortunate name. Anyway. You are—or, shall I say, were—Archer Greene, yes? Unique sort of name. Lovely. Your father’s, wasn’t it?  _(Archer’s gaze hardens.)_  Ah, yes. So it was. No worries. You won’t be using now, but it’ll be kept in good care—”

“What do you mean?” Archer asks.

“Well, sir, it’s one of the rules. When one dies, they leave behind the life they led and start anew. So it is with joining the Carnival, and with it comes a new name to suit your new function.” From the patient way he explains it, Archer can only wonder how many times the Ticket-Keeper has explained this before. “You, I believe… Ah. Yes. You have been assigned as our new knife thrower.”

That sounds easy enough. Archer has done that before, when short on cash and high on bravado. “So what is my new name?”

“That, you will learn at your presentation.” The Ticket-Keeper checks one of his gold watches. “If you are ready, we can begin. The Doll may accompany you if she wishes. The master says she is quite fond of you.”

Archer feels her arm slide through his, feels her head tilt to his shoulder. The young man smiles a little in response, pats her hand. The Ticket-Keeper looks satisfied enough. He gestures for them to follow toward the main tent. Other carnies come out of their tents to get a look at their newcomer. Some smile at him. Others wave. A few sneer at him. The Doll hisses at a few of these, to Archer’s amusement. They all fall in line behind them as they pass. A marching band starts up near the band, playing a jaunty little tune, and discordant voices join in. It is a giant procession down to the main tent with the Ticket-Keeper leading them; for a moment it makes him think of weddings. Isn’t that what this is, sort of? A marriage? Maybe not to a specific person, but certainly a commitment of sorts to a new future. A new life.

_Bye, bye, Archer Greene. So long and good riddance._

When they pass by where the hobo sits with his bottle, the man scrambles up. He throws something around the young man’s neck—a red knitted scarf—and pats him on the back before joining the procession. It somehow becomes that much easier to leave the old life behind. Archer? Archer who?

Lucifer is waiting in the center ring. Next to him stands the tall, foreboding man in the top hat with the whip. The music and singing fade into silence as the procession gathers in the stands. Even the Painted Doll steps away, but not without pressing her fingertips to Archer’s lips and giving him a look of warning with her eyes. He has just enough time to kiss her fingers before the Ticket-Keeper takes him by the arm and leads him away, towards Lucifer. A hand to his shoulder is all it takes for Archer to kneel.

“Archer Greene, you have been brought to us with the intent to join our Carnival. Entrance is not so freely given. Your indulgence in sin is quite impressive, but if sin alone were all that were necessary, this Carnival would be quite crowded.” Lucifer looks into the crowd. “Who sponsors this man’s entrance into the Carnival?”

The Painted Doll eagerly steps forward and stands to Archer’s left. What surprises the crowd gathered is when the hobo also steps forward and takes his place to Archer’s right. Lucifer looks down at the young man, eyebrow raised.

“What have you to say in his favor, Hobo?” asks Lucifer.

The Hobo clears his throat. “He was willing to part with his only means of defense so that I could find the means of earning my next loaf of bread. He’s a sinner, sure, but he’s got a streak of decency to him.”

“And you, Painted Doll? What have you to say in the boy’s favor?” The crowd watches as she takes on a demure manner of posing, her eyes bashfully downcast while pressing both hands to her own cheeks. Lucifer looks down at the potential new member, an incredulous on his features. “If I interpret this correctly…you’re one of the first men in ages to find her wholly attractive.  _(Still with a demure air, she blows a kiss and traces its fictionalized flight out of the tent.)_  And you… He  _what_?”

So she repeats the gesture, pointing in Archer’s direction for emphasis and nodding. Not daring to turn, and thus unable to see her or her gestures, the look crossing Lucifer’s face makes Archer nervous enough to forget the pain already growing in his kneecaps.

“Apparently,” Lucifer says finally, “you passed her test. You find her wholly attractive and you passed her test.”

“W-well,” Archer ventures, “she  _is_  pretty.”

It does little to make the horned man look less as if he may eviscerate the young man on the spot.

“Fine. As you have two witnesses in such high regard, all that remains now is for you to pledge your loyalty. Do you swear, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to carrying out my whims in humble service for the benefit of the Carnival and all of us therein?”

Archer licks his lips. “I-I do.”

“And do you pledge, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to do so for all eternity?”

The tent is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Every eye is fixed on the center ring, on the young man kneeling before their horned leader. If he answers wrong, they might descend upon him and tear him to shreds—even the pretty little Doll at his side.

_No, not might. They will._

Lucifer redirects Archer’s gaze up to his face. “Well, boy?”

“I do.” Archer clears his throat. “I—I do. I pledge to serve.”

“For eternity?”

“For eternity.” He nods. “Y-yes. I pledge to serve f-for eternity.”

The horned man looks at the two sponsors, his expression exasperated. “Very well. Rise.”

The young man does so. The Painted Doll and the hobo stand aside as Lucifer slides an arm around Archer’s shoulders and turns him to face the crowd of carnies gathered in attendance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our newest member of the Carnival; a charming little knife-thrower—the Scorpion!”

The big top erupts in cheers and music. The Painted Doll threads her arm through his again. Another clap on the back from the hobo knocks the young man slightly off-balance. He smiles, waves to the audience as he turns the name over in his mind. No longer Archer Greene, town Lothario from the rough-and-tumble side of the tracks. Now he is the Scorpion, knife-thrower of the Devil’s Carnival and apparent paramour of the beautiful Painted Doll.

He could certainly learn to enjoy this.

This time, the gentle sound of her voice is what brings Archer out of the dark. She isn’t singing to him, just humming a tune he feels like he should recognize. Archer lies with his eyes closed, taking in the sound and the gentle caress of her fingertips across his forehead. He wonders what her voice sounds like now in the wake of whatever happened to her. Can she still actually talk? What about sing? Is the humming the only thing she has left? But he heard her, didn’t he? He heard her sing…

Then again, she also has that phonograph and those records.

Archer draws in a breath. The kissing booth girl stops humming. Her fingers alight on his wrist. Gently, she squeezes; somehow, without needing to be told, he knows it to be a command:  _Open your eyes._

So he does. He gazes up into those pretty eyes looking down at him and he smiles.

“Hey there, Doll. You miss me?” His smile widens when she nods a little. She caresses his face and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

Carefully, she helps him sit up. That’s when it becomes apparent that he is in her tent on her reclining couch. Nothing hurts. He is unblemished. Unscarred. Whole.

Sort of.

“My hair—” Archer swallows. Panic rises as he feels his head, feels where skin ends and bone begins. “My h-head—”

She shushes him into silence, pressing a finger to his lips the same way she did at the kissing booth. (She. Her. What is it that L…that the horned man called her? The Painted Doll. He can understand why.) She stays that way, staring at him with a commanding sort of look, until Archer until he drops his hands into his lap. It takes him a few moments to figure out that the Doll wants him to close his eyes. He listens to her moving around her tent; opening and closing things, moving items, sliding clothes side to side on the rack. Outside, the carnival is a buzz. There are people calling to each other. A rickety cart rolls by, its wheels in desperate need of oil. Archer hears a girl with a high voice—the same girl who spoke in his ear when he was bound up in rope—poke her head in and ask the Doll about him. It amuses him a little when it sounds like the Doll sends her off running.

“When can I open my eyes?” he asks, knowing without needing to be reminded that expecting an answer (a verbal one, at least) is futile. “What’re you doing over there, huh? Getting pretty for me?  _(The sounds of movement stop.)_  You don’t have to, y’know. C’mere…”

Her footsteps are so light against the ground that it startles Archer when he feels the Doll place something snug around his head. Attempts to feel it out earn him light slaps to his hands. Attempts to reach for her, to slide his hands around her little waist while she makes readjustments; those are a little bit more well-received.

“So much to learn about you. How we gonna do that if you don’t talk to me, huh?” Archer’s thumbs brush against her waist idly. “Through touch? Through song, maybe?”

The Painted Doll responds by taking his hands in hers. Still so very, very cold! He’ll fix that. Soon enough, he will. He ventures to open his eyes and look up at her.

“I’m willing to learn,” he says, “if you’re willing to teach.”

Something about this pleases her. It isn’t immediately evident on her face, but something… Archer can feel it in his chest. The notion of her pleasure at his willingness to put himself under her tutelage, under her care. Like a pet. She rewards him with a kiss and he is pleased to find that her lips, at least, are still warm enough from their last encounter—only this time, she tastes of fresh strawberries.

A tug of his arms from her instructs Archer to rise. She guides him towards a standing mirror that he is unsure was here on his first visit. His stomach contorts. A desire to argue her dies in his throat. How can he complain? Where’s his right? Still, he would be more than happy if he never saw another mirror in his life—until Archer sees what the Doll has done for him. A wig of sorts, styled into a perfect pompadour, rests snugly on his head and covers any evidence of his scalping. Archer’s heart sinks a little when it feels hard to the touch, like molded plastic, instead of actual hair. Compared to the alternative of going without, however… Next to him, the Doll beams, clearly proud of herself.

“This was your idea?” Archer asks.

Still beaming, the Doll nods. She wanders away to the rack and gives him a new set of clothes and boots very much like his old ones. The black leather of the boots is unmarked, however, and the black motorcycle jacket is a different style from the one he used to wear.

“You want me to change?” She nods, turning around and shielding her eyes to give Archer privacy. “You don’t want to help me?”

Though she does not turn, the Doll stamps her foot, and Archer gets the feeling he has given her cheeks the first bit of color not borne from makeup in a long time.

The clothes and shoes feel perfect, as if everything was made specifically for him. The Doll also looks quite pleased. From her desk, she retrieves a small but wide silver box. Inside, he finds a familiar item—his knife. The knife that saved him countless times. The knife that betrayed him. The handle has been decorated with a painted gold scorpion, but he would recognize the knife anywhere. Archer hesitates.

_“You must bear the marks of your sin.”_

Isn’t that what the horned man said? But accepting this… Taking it means he accepts his fate. That he fully accepts that this is real, that he is dead, and that he is among the damned here.

_It may not be so bad, though. Things could be worse, couldn’t it?_

They could. They most certainly could.

Archer takes the knife. It feels like it always has—familiar, right,  _his_. He shows her the gold scorpion.

“What’s this?”

As if on cue, an old man in a long coat enters the tent, bald save for a mane of gray hair ringed around his head. In his gnarled hands is a portfolio. Pocket watches of various colors hang from fob chains on his coat. As he lifts the monocular covering his left eye, he smiles at the Doll fondly, like an old father or grandfather addressing his favorite family member.

“Is he ready for presentation, dear?” When she nods, he studies the young man up and down before nodding in approval. “Very well. I am the Ticket-Keeper of this Carnival, though you may address me as Peter if you so wish.”

“Peter.”

“Yes.” They shake hands. For an old man, he has quite the grip. “A most unfortunate name. Anyway. You are—or, shall I say, were—Archer Greene, yes? Unique sort of name. Lovely. Your father’s, wasn’t it?  _(Archer’s gaze hardens.)_  Ah, yes. So it was. No worries. You won’t be using now, but it’ll be kept in good care—”

“What do you mean?” Archer asks.

“Well, sir, it’s one of the rules. When one dies, they leave behind the life they led and start anew. So it is with joining the Carnival, and with it comes a new name to suit your new function.” From the patient way he explains it, Archer can only wonder how many times the Ticket-Keeper has explained this before. “You, I believe… Ah. Yes. You have been assigned as our new knife thrower.”

That sounds easy enough. Archer has done that before, when short on cash and high on bravado. “So what is my new name?”

“That, you will learn at your presentation.” The Ticket-Keeper checks one of his gold watches. “If you are ready, we can begin. The Doll may accompany you if she wishes. The master says she is quite fond of you.”

Archer feels her arm slide through his, feels her head tilt to his shoulder. The young man smiles a little in response, pats her hand. The Ticket-Keeper looks satisfied enough. He gestures for them to follow toward the main tent. Other carnies come out of their tents to get a look at their newcomer. Some smile at him. Others wave. A few sneer at him. The Doll hisses at a few of these, to Archer’s amusement. They all fall in line behind them as they pass. A marching band starts up near the band, playing a jaunty little tune, and discordant voices join in. It is a giant procession down to the main tent with the Ticket-Keeper leading them; for a moment it makes him think of weddings. Isn’t that what this is, sort of? A marriage? Maybe not to a specific person, but certainly a commitment of sorts to a new future. A new life.

_Bye, bye, Archer Greene. So long and good riddance._

When they pass by where the hobo sits with his bottle, the man scrambles up. He throws something around the young man’s neck—a red knitted scarf—and pats him on the back before joining the procession. It somehow becomes that much easier to leave the old life behind. Archer? Archer who?

Lucifer is waiting in the center ring. Next to him stands the tall, foreboding man in the top hat with the whip. The music and singing fade into silence as the procession gathers in the stands. Even the Painted Doll steps away, but not without pressing her fingertips to Archer’s lips and giving him a look of warning with her eyes. He has just enough time to kiss her fingers before the Ticket-Keeper takes him by the arm and leads him away, towards Lucifer. A hand to his shoulder is all it takes for Archer to kneel.

“Archer Greene, you have been brought to us with the intent to join our Carnival. Entrance is not so freely given. Your indulgence in sin is quite impressive, but if sin alone were all that were necessary, this Carnival would be quite crowded.” Lucifer looks into the crowd. “Who sponsors this man’s entrance into the Carnival?”

The Painted Doll eagerly steps forward and stands to Archer’s left. What surprises the crowd gathered is when the hobo also steps forward and takes his place to Archer’s right. Lucifer looks down at the young man, eyebrow raised.

“What have you to say in his favor, Hobo?” asks Lucifer.

The Hobo clears his throat. “He was willing to part with his only means of defense so that I could find the means of earning my next loaf of bread. He’s a sinner, sure, but he’s got a streak of decency to him.”

“And you, Painted Doll? What have you to say in the boy’s favor?” The crowd watches as she takes on a demure manner of posing, her eyes bashfully downcast while pressing both hands to her own cheeks. Lucifer looks down at the potential new member, an incredulous on his features. “If I interpret this correctly…you’re one of the first men in ages to find her wholly attractive.  _(Still with a demure air, she blows a kiss and traces its fictionalized flight out of the tent.)_  And you… He  _what_?”

So she repeats the gesture, pointing in Archer’s direction for emphasis and nodding. Not daring to turn, and thus unable to see her or her gestures, the look crossing Lucifer’s face makes Archer nervous enough to forget the pain already growing in his kneecaps.

“Apparently,” Lucifer says finally, “you passed her test. You find her wholly attractive and you passed her test.”

“W-well,” Archer ventures, “she  _is_  pretty.”

It does little to make the horned man look less as if he may eviscerate the young man on the spot.

“Fine. As you have two witnesses in such high regard, all that remains now is for you to pledge your loyalty. Do you swear, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to carrying out my whims in humble service for the benefit of the Carnival and all of us therein?”

Archer licks his lips. “I-I do.”

“And do you pledge, on what decent portion remains of your soul, to do so for all eternity?”

The tent is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Every eye is fixed on the center ring, on the young man kneeling before their horned leader. If he answers wrong, they might descend upon him and tear him to shreds—even the pretty little Doll at his side.

_No, not might. They will._

Lucifer redirects Archer’s gaze up to his face. “Well, boy?”

“I do.” Archer clears his throat. “I—I do. I pledge to serve.”

“For eternity?”

“For eternity.” He nods. “Y-yes. I pledge to serve f-for eternity.”

The horned man looks at the two sponsors, his expression exasperated. “Very well. Rise.”

The young man does so. The Painted Doll and the hobo stand aside as Lucifer slides an arm around Archer’s shoulders and turns him to face the crowd of carnies gathered in attendance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you our newest member of the Carnival; a charming little knife-thrower—the Scorpion!”

The big top erupts in cheers and music. The Painted Doll threads her arm through his again. Another clap on the back from the hobo knocks the young man slightly off-balance. He smiles, waves to the audience as he turns the name over in his mind. No longer Archer Greene, town Lothario from the rough-and-tumble side of the tracks. Now he is the Scorpion, knife-thrower of the Devil’s Carnival and apparent paramour of the beautiful Painted Doll.

He could certainly learn to enjoy this.


End file.
